Red Dirt Rampage
by scorpio7
Summary: A rigger trying to lay low in the CAS from the running game in Seattle gets unwillingly thrown into the fray of an underworld smuggling war.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Sometimes there are those rare occasions where you get to have the perfect smoke. There's nothing special about it, just another generic smoke in the pack, but everything about it just seems perfect. The taste is good, drags are smooth, and your body takes it in stride, making you feel relaxed. Something relaxing is exactly what I needed at that moment. I finally got off my hoop and unpacked the rest of my junk in my new dos, throwing it together into organized chaos. Of course, this place is in the middle of bum-fragging-egypt or otherwise known as Tulsa.

I'm no confederalist by any means; I just needed get out of Seattle. Things are just a little to hot right now to try to reside there. So here I sit out on the front porch of my small "ranch house", and let's not forget to mention small, but coming complete with a separate four car garage building out back didn't hurt. So, I'm having a well deserved and needed smoke, with nothing but boonies surrounding me. I can't knock it too much, no gun shots, no sirens, no constant traffic, no hustle and bustle, nothing. This deafening silence is about to drive me nagging fruts. I give it another two days. The only thing I can say is that the sky is a little clearer and the stars are shinning a bit brighter in the night's sky due to the lack of towering office complexes and arcologies.

I felt the rhythmic vibrations stroking my leg, generated from the secretary in my pocket. I casually whipped it out and gave it a glance as the display told me I had a new message. I opened up a channel and a two dimensional, non-descript, male face stared back at me as a very astute voice began rambling to me. "Hello, my name is R. Capulet. I represent an investment firm that wishes to offer you an opportunity to increase return yields on your investments through a variety of stocks and…". Oh great, another telemarketer I thought, but I stopped short of deleting it due to the name, R. Capulet. I zipped ahead to the mention of a contact number and fed it to the speed dial. A brief interlude transpired, then a response. Greeted by a clearing throat, a relatively familiar voice came across the line. "That was fast."

"So, Romeo, or should I say Mr. Capulet, how are you wanting to spend my hard earned Cred?"

"I actually called to verify your number to see if it is still legitimate, as well as, verify your account."

"Same number and same number."

"Very well, how do you wish the funds distributed?"

"Bi-weekly and vary the amounts every so often."

"Done and done, there will be a two percent surcharge per deposit, you understand."

"Whatever chummer, but I _WILL_ be watching it."

"Understood, good evening to you sir."

"Later, Chummer."

Ah, good ol' Shakespeare, the epitome of formality. However, a near nova hot decker is hard to come by, let alone, be a chummer. No one would have ever figured to see a struggling Shakespearian actor become a decker. That and the fact the boy's a troll to boot. I tend to think he does it for publicity. Shakes always said that he felt discriminated when trying out for lead roles, due to his race. He has a point, but you think seeing a troll playing Macbeth or Julius Caesar would ever be accepted by the social elite? I think not. I guess you could say he opted for a broader audience by using the matrix as his stage. He runs the matrix under the handle the "Running Romeo", complete with an Elizabethan era dressed, tights wearing, foppish guy icon. He prides himself in his gentlemanly mannerisms and professionalism giving him that stylish edge and notoriety which is true to his nature as a performer. He is also my impromptu accountant, spreading my cred out so I always have a stipend to fall back on. That's the kind of relationships you build in the shadow biz.

22:40 is what the clock read on my secretary. I figured it was time for a drink and check out the club seen for a Thursday night. I gave the butt of my cancer stick a flick to the dirt, snagged my leather jacket from behind the door, checked the action, while chambering a round in my Predator III, and warmed up the bike. Word had it there was this seedy little dive called "The Last Resort" off of I-44 which was noted to be a biker's haunt of sorts. I figured what the hell. I gave my steed a gentle snap on the throttle and headed out.

I cruised on down the Broken Arrow Expressway, connected to the I-44 interchange, and took it to just shy of the Arkansas River. The exit more or less dumped me right in front of the Last Resort. The place was an old hotel built up to look like a castle. Rust marks stained the front wall where letters used to hang that read Camelot. I had to admit the owner either had a sense of humor or clever marketing scheme. About a dozen or so bikes lined the front drive, varying from Scorpions to Auroras. I rolled in nonchalantly and backed into a spot down the line. A pair of humans standing outside on the walk, dressed in street tough gear, watched me curiously as I made my way to the big oak double doors. The guys, in addition to, the lintel of the doors were both tagged with the picture of a psycho, rabid Chihuahua, gnawing on a motorcycle wheel. One of the local gangs I figured.

Stepping through the entryway I stumbled into a mixture of pool tables, shadowy corner booths, and blaring rave/dance music. The crowd was thin but much the same street dress, minus the blonde haired, blue eyed, Anglo babe who sported a Japanese school girl motif that oozed frag me, please! Under any other given circumstance I might have proposed a private tutoring, but never fool around with the squeeze of a ganger, chummer. I know from experience, trust me. The crew was a mixture meta-races. At least the bar was loaded. Sliding onto a bar stool, the balding, beer-bellied ork barkeep waddled down my way. I had him concoct me a seven and seven, which wasn't half bad. Obviously, it wasn't one of his more regularly ordered drinks. I leaned onto the bar; nursing my drink, the whole time feeling and knowing random eyes were bird dogging me from amongst the dancers and patrons.

As the blood slowly coursed its way into my alcohol stream I heard the thunder clap of an exhaust, rumble down the drive to a stop. It had to be a modified Viking, no doubt, probably with a bulky troll to go along with it. My assumptions were confirmed as the posse came through the doors. In the lead was an above averaged built, 2.1 meters tall, African-Anglo male in a slick black sleeveless shirt and leather pants attire. The man dripped power and authority in his motions as people seemed to peel off slowly in front of him as he strode in. No question, he was the leader. In tow followed a tank of an ork, grizzly and moderately scarred, more than likely a razor boy of some sort, possibly war chief. Behind him was a 2 meter thick, Aztlan troll, decked out like a luchador wrestler. Bringing up the rear was a petite young chica who was tiny compared to the rest, hovering around approximately 1.7 meters. The troll and the ork were both tagged with the insignia like the rest. The troop made their way to a table whose occupants decided to double time it to another before the leader got within a couple steps of it. While reality began to filter back into my senses, I tried to keep them in the corner of my eye.

The man in black called a few of the gangers over at random, they'd discuss something, and then he would dismiss them. As I inquiringly watched the proceedings from my left side, I failed to see the chica slink over on my right. She was thin but toned. Hair looked like it was dyed with acid, giving it a yellowish green hue. She sported a mid-rift top layered over with a true leather jacket; stone washed blue jeans, and steel toed boots. I gave her a once over as I met her eyes which were shaded heavily in black makeup around her lids and sockets with only the whites of her eyes piercing through the darkness of eye shadow and long hair. Even with all that, she still had a naturally friendly face to admire.

"Well… haven't seen you around here before," she crooned with a disarmingly sweet voice, "whatcha' doin' here?"

"Sort of new to town, thought I'd stop in and have a drink." I watched as her pupils seemed to dilate and I felt fixed upon them. It felt as if my brain itched as she continued. "Just a drink, huh? Nothing else? ". I tensed up a bit as I knew I was involved in some sort of mind rape. "I don't know, you tell me." I replied in the best nervously cool demeanor I could suck up. Her eyes returned to normal, she looked towards the bar, as she waved her hand in front of my face.

She signaled down to the bartender for another drink as she turned back towards me with a slightly embarrassed coy smile. "Sorry, hun. Just needed to be sure, I'd figured you'd rather get grilled by me than the other option…" she smiled, nodding over to the luchador. "Forget about it. I didn't realize whose turf it was, nor did I know this was a private club. If it would be better for me to take my meat elsewhere, I'll bail."

"Nah, you're whiz, meat. Just keep your nose clean 'round here. Besides you got a fan club waiting outside to talk to you."

I raised a curious eyebrow at that as she teasingly back pedaled, leading outside with an alluring finger. I became more concerned about my bike for a moment rather than possibly walking head long into some sort of ganger prank. I went along with whatever this little chica was getting me into. To my surprise I saw 3 of the gangers checking out my ride. She held the door for me till I got outside then with a subtle wave she shut the door behind me. Damn, I just been played, I hate it when that happens.

I glanced back over to the gawk and stare brigade who were still just that for now. I walked on down to my ride, stopping short to better assess the situation. A wiry elf was scanning my bike from front to rear, just ecstatic over every little detail. The two humans standing there with them decided to lose interest and took back their positions at the door. The elf didn't even avert his attention from the idol he had before him. "This ride yours, omae?"

"That all depends…."

He wiped his road grime covered hand on his pants and held out to me, not once looking away from the engine. "Th' name's Lanky, helluva a ride you got here, omae. An '02 Honda Shadow Saber 1100, am I right?"

"You know your bikes, chummer, Nate Hardgrove." I answered acknowledging his wisdom of motorcycles.

He rose slowly to his feet and it seemed all his joints snapped and popped like he'd been balled up for some time. "Yeah, I gotta admit, done some damn good work here. Been building up a '36 Scorpion myself, but finding a carb and heads is a slitch!"

"Been there, but they always turn up." I benignly responded, politely nudging him away, and mounted up on the bike. "Say, you know of any good cruise spot around this way?"

"Sure do, hit Memorial, Friday and Saturday nights, everyone knows that." And with that, I curtly nodded and decided to not press my luck, and hit the road running. I rode around taking the scenic route to be sure I had no tails, which luckily I didn't. As for now, it was back to the dos.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

It was 11:34. Damn, I guess I more tired than I thought or blondie slipped me a Mickey. I searched the trid-phone book for the addresses of the local speed shops. I decided to pick at random and my finger fell on Ground Level Performance. I chose to go local and roll out in the Texan. The engine lit off and assertively let out a muffled growl like rousing horned bear. I gave a comical love pat on the dash and Sunday drove to the shop.

Ground Level was located on a more aging side of town on Admiral place, the mapping dividing line of north and south. The area was half commercial, half industrial, a throw back to about ten to fifteen years earlier. It wasn't hard to find the place, you didn't need an AutoNav, just had to look for the place the fast looking cars. Like gargoyles, a pair of Honda-GM thirty-two-twenties and Toyota six-sixty Arachnid faced out towards the street in front of the building watching the open road. The bodies had full custom tricks, heat baffles, spoilers, ground effects, shaved mirrors, the works. They probably had that much or more under the hood and chassis. I pulled along the curb just out of line of sight of the sentinels out of respect, the unwritten rule amongst gear-heads.

I stepped inside to the speed demon's toy box. This place was just littered with every kind part imaginable. Shelves upon shelves, rows upon rows of everything that could possible be put on any vehicle was there. I felt like a woman in a shoe store who wanted to try on every pair. I think I found the place I needed. To highlight the floor space, near the middle of the parts field was a Westwind 2K Turbo R-type with a cross-generation turbine fed, rotary motor power plant. I, as would any first on looker who knew anything about cars, would be spent and let's just say I definitely going to need a post orgasmic smoke after this.

A few shoppers were about fingering and examining parts like a quality control inspector, coming and going like mall rats. A few random floor people clad in Polo shirts and khakis would vulture in for the sale. I made myself look like a window shopper and they seemed to pay me no mind. As I weaved my way through exhaust pipes and intakes I saw that the sucker sniffers were passing by a girl in her mid twenties who was intently looking at a performance kit. At first glance, I thought it rude of the fraggers to do such a thing just because she happened to be in a tracked, electric powered wheel chair. As I passed by her, I noticed she had an obvious right cyber arm and her legs were cut off just above where her knees would have been. Her hair was long and strung about and was dressed and looked very plain except for the chrome data jack at her temple. I guess I may have spooked her a bit as I walked by and but she gave me a glance, and then turned her scooter opposite my direction, continuing right on out the door. I felt a sort of sympathy for her because I figured she wished she could be out there with the tire spinners but she was confined to the chair. Poor girl.

I spent another couple of minutes window shopping till I got bored and pulled out of there. I decided to scout Memorial drive to examine the environment. The street itself ran north/south, two lanes each direction divided by two meter wide ferecrete medians. Each traffic light was mile apart less the one set at the Broken Arrow Expressway on/off ramp, the Highway 169 on/off ramp, and the midway intersection between 41st and 51st. I guesstimated the strip was at least 6-8 miles long down each side of the drive. The streets themselves were not adapted to the metric system due to the fact they had been around for about a hundred plus years prior. I could not even begin to fathom how many want-to-be racers and die hards must have passed up and down this street. I went up and down the road a few times getting a feel for the road surface, bumps, and dips. I weaved in and out of the side streets of the industrial area along the north end and the commercial in the center, and along with the residential sections that lie around the south end. In between, were a grove of strip malls, car dealerships, and condo complexes of every price range. Plenty of area, plenty of places to park and be whiz, not a bad little spot for a night of showing off your ride.

I pulled back to the dos about 14:30 or so. I slid the Texan into its bay and began the ritual of debuting.

14:45 I busted down the street directional tires on the rear and put on the cheater slicks.

15:13 Ripped out the single diode spark plugs and slapped in the quad diode, high temp ones.

15:50 Adjusted the air ride suspension to level out ride and set the chassis down to .2 meters ground clearance.

16:27 Ate three pieces of cold pizza, down one brewski, and inhaled two light cigarettes.

16:48 Plugged myself into the computer. Set the injector pulse 2 milliseconds advance. Bumped the throttle position open +4 degrees idle to better mix the higher octane fuel mix I dumped in the belly of the my beast. I uploaded flames and random speed part company logo graphics overlaying fire engine red paint onto the chameleon skin surface for flair.

16:52 I unhooked and threw in a full undercarriage red neon tube set for fun and nostalgia.

17:53 Finally, for security reasons, I wired up my scrambler license plate.

18:45 Packed it in, cleaned tools, dry brushed the car, wet down the tires and rims with some shine spray, and hit the shower.

I threw on some baggy jeans, the best t-shirt I had clean with some sort of sporty looking car on the back, a flashy Ford motor sports baseball cap, and the heavy duty work boots for the cheesiest rookie look I could sport.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

I cruised in on Memorial around 19:30ish. I came in heading south bound and realized I was a bit off in my guess because the "true" cruiser traffic picked up at 41st. I melded in with the flow of traffic, riding the wave all the way down to around 91st. All in all, this gave an operating range of around ten miles, give or take, not counting the turn around points at corner gas stations. I indulged with some flamboyant engine revving, but no takers.

After about a couple of laps, someone was bold enough to initiate the challenge. On the inside lane next to me was an ivory white, Mazda XZ250. It was the non-police version, but had the factory, sport edition, tricks on it. I figured it may be stock or the cheaper, minor upgrades or, at worst case, a sleeper. We both coasted down trying to get a more even playing field line-up, downshifted into lower gears causing both our engine to rev and snarl like a pair of facing off wolves, and proceeded to creep up to the changing light ahead of us.

The light turned red. My opponent and I lined up on the crosswalk marks. I felt oh so tempted to open the ports on the nitrous tanks underneath my seat, but figured I might not need them anyway. Don't want to play my hand too early, better to let them stay out of sight for now. I chose to break the rear wheels loose with a brief power stall to get the "slick" portion of my tire sticky for traction. I gave a quick glance over to "Mr. White" and through the polarized glass I watched and a front skirt dropped down from underneath the front bumper and his meek little spoiler in the rear pitch up about twenty degrees. The boy had an active aerodynamics system on it. Things are about to get interesting. Little by little, I tightened my grip on the wheel, I could feel my pulse thumping against my ear drum. I saw clear road up ahead for nearly three quarters of the mile stretch. I gave my neck a quick pop to either side, pressed in on the gas pedal gently to bring the rpm's up to 2000, while holding the brakes. I suffered through three intense pulses raging in my ears, then a momentary silence as the red light went dark, a concise breath, then, all I saw a blooming green shimmer begin to emerge.

As soon the light went to its' fullest green my left foot jumped from it's perch on the brakes and my right foot attempted to drive the 15mm x 3.5mm, rubber covered, aluminum gas pedal directly to the asphalt below it. The back tires barked and squealed as the truck lurched and sprung from the line like a pouncing jaguar. The steering wheel became squirrelly, after that it seemed to free float for a moment as the front tires obviously tried to come up off the ground, but barely stayed glued to lane. The front end arched its' way back down to earth as I cleared the intersection. I shot a quick glance to the side mirror to my surprise I watched as the rolling soap bar slithered like snake along my side as his tires tried to grab some sort of traction, but he had no problem with forward momentum, as he was half a car length back of me.

My tires yelped as second gear engaged at 55kph. The front end pitched up from the torque but did not rise and truck did not budge from the centerline of the lane. Second glance, the 250 straightened out and was locked to the road, however he now wavered around an eighth to quarter of a length to me. That's when I heard him shift and the car sounded like it was trying to suck all the moisture out of the ambient air, seems he's also hooked up with a supercharger.

Third gear followed right in tow at 103kph, the truck barreled on. Whitey was actually now an eighth of length ahead but I sensed he was pulling in fourth gear, he's about to top out. I fought back the urge to pop the release on the tanks but stopped short, telling myself out loud, "He's got nothing left!"

Fourth gear, 154kph, over drive, just kept on truckin'. The engine toned down its' war cry a decibel or two as I noticed the Mazda slip steadily further back to my taillights. I passed through a pair of lights shining from the lot on my right.

At first I thought, Drek! Just blew past a Star pig-rig. I let off the throttle and looked back, yet to my shock I guess I just spooked myself. The two-fifty slid in behind and as I gingerly rode the brakes and coasted to a more appropriate and legal speed. 250 hung back at a distance, so I figured he was waiting for me to turn in somewhere. I glided into the C &C Muffler lot. For the moment it was unoccupied, however if anyone was even half-hooped watching, I knew it might not be this way for long. The white XZ250 pulled along parallel to my right side and a midnight black XZ250 parked on the other side of him. I watched as the driver of the white one exited his vehicle. He was clad in very tres chic, all black, trousers, loafers and silk shirt. The guy was had short, dark, cropped hair, was an elf of Euroasian decent, and the driver in the black car followed suit. Much the same, elf, Asian, except for the fact he was decked out in all white, but yet just as chic. I shut the truck down and figured I'd go and introduce myself.

The pair were looking over my truck with a casual glance. The two made a couple of comments between each other in what I took to be their native tongue. It sounded more like a couple of Woks being thrown repeatedly against a wall. I gave them a what's up, chummer nod as I approached as I got a better glimpse of the opposite twin rides they sported. With a relatively minute accent, the man in black fluently chimed in, "So, Are you going to tell me what you have hiding under that hood?" I chuckled jokingly and shot him a mischievous smirk as I rounded to the front of the truck, detached the hood pins, and teasingly raised the hood. To their shock, they looked about the engine compartment to find accessory mods that should have been littered all around but none where to be found. The two elves looked at each other and almost simultaneously methodically looked over at me with a mixture of confusion, disbelief, curiosity, and a general sense of being floored. This was definitely a trid moment because it was absolutely priceless to see their faces.

"Surprised?" I retorted with a slight bit spite and enthusiasm.

"Could you break it down as to what kind of set up you have here? I mean, how did you get that much horsepower and torque out of a stock arrangement? I know this here is not stock by any means but how? What? What did you do to this thing?" he responded with insanely tense inquisitiveness.

"Let's just say I like to run a little more old school."

"Old School? How do you mean?"

"Well, without too many specifics, it comes down to bigger camshafts, bigger bore on the cylinders, roller rocker arms, valve work, basically the old saying that bigger is better."

"So you did a complete, blueprint custom job on the motor?"

I gave a half sly look, "I may have cut a few corners here and there, however, as long as it does the job, I'm happy with it. By the way, Nate Hardgrove.", I finished extending my hand. He shook my hand, "Sorry, I'm Xian Cho", he said somewhat ashamed as he shot a thumb over to his counterpart, "This is my cousin, Phan." I shot Phan a nod as I looked over my shoulder at their rides. "Now, if you don't mind me asking, what the frag is up with your corresponding get-ups and cars?" The cousins kind of looked at each other inquiringly, then Xian looked back at me with an 'oh yeah' gaze. "Well, you see we are Daoists. You know what that is correct?" I thought for a moment trying to rack my brain, then it hit me, "It's that whole Yin and Yang thing, for every evil there is a little good and vice versa, right?" Xian debated on my logic as I saw him tilting his head from side to side. "You could say that, that' is the more western interpretation, but yes."

"Whiz, chummer, I have to admit you guys got a style all your own." giving them a warm, accepting grin.

About that time, a pair of squeaky little voices called out from inside of each of the Mazdas. I turned to find the source and was taken back to see a pair of blonde haired, bimbo twins, one in each car, hanging out of them. I turned back to the twosome flashing them a jealously accepting wink and a thumbs-up all the time thinking, 'lucky sons of a slitch'.

"Well, it was nice to meet you, Nate, but it seems we need…"

"Get thee gone, chummer. Vise man say, nava keep rady waiting, or he sha nava get da boom-boom." I jested at their expense in the worst oriental accent I could produce at the time. They both laughed in good fun as they hopped into their rides, with their gold digging bomb shells, and re-entered the fray of cruising.

I sat there on the lot for around thirty or so minutes getting a couple of wannabes trying to call me out but I decided to bide my time and see what else was out. I selected my potential targets; Went back out into the flow; Picked up a few short hop races between top lights but made sure it seemed like I barely squeezed out ahead of them. For the most part, none of them looked as if they were too inclined to chat. By the time it hit 01:30, the numbers of the cruising public appeared to thin out and die off. So, I followed suit.

As I rolled back to the dos, a thought had occurred to me. Not once during the whole night did I ever see a Lone Star patrol or pursuit car out and about along the drive. I thought for sure they'd be out trying to cashing in on ticketing the speeders and all things associated with the mayhem in between, to meet their "quota". Strange. Perhaps Johnny Law reserves that potential for when they feel like it. But why should I care, I didn't get pulled over and that's all that matters. I was able to test drive this set up and get a feel for what's out there. So far, I'm not too disappointed, but I know there are better out there, I just got to find out where the big boys play.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Of course, like any gear head, I just had to tinker with the truck some more to see how much more I could get out of the motor. I must have been at it for about a good two to three hours after I got back to my garage. I drug myself into my humble abode where I somehow managed to collapse onto my bed. The only problem was I woke up at the hoop crack of noon with my feet barely dangling my boots over the right side of my bed while my head and arm loomed over the right side. After about a good hour of working out the kinks in my neck and appendages, I was able to zombie my way to the recliner.

I decided to lower my I.Q. a few levels by turning on the flat screen. I flipped through the channels, sure enough, ump-teen thousand channels and not a damn thing to watch. I did happen upon a commercial for Ground Level though. The blonde, the brunette, and the redhead with the T's and A's that were sculpted in all the right places and tight enough you could bounce a quarter off them. Just seeing that made me to buy the parts they were rubbing themselves all over, whether it was for my ride or not. After my tongue dragging moment, I recycled the shot through my head on what they were selling. Complete nitrous systems, turbocharger set-ups, engine modification kits of all types, racing suspensions, off-road suspensions, and auto body kits. Now any genuine speed shop is going to have this, that's what they do. The most attention-grabbing factor was in the fact that they were selling these parts below what you would normally see them priced at. Who knows, maybe his stock is so good or business in general is so good they can afford to.

I lounged around the house the rest of the day like a total squatter. Around sundown, I decided to go ahead and see if there was any new blood out on the strip to inflate my ego on. As I threw on some racing stud duds and proceeded to head towards the door, something told me to grab the secure long coat. I didn't feel like arguing with my instincts tonight so I put it on as well. Once again I hopped into the vehicle and boldly made my way out into my element as it were.

Traffic was about the same as the night before. I cruised up and down the way a few times but nothing caught my attention. I pulled up into the muffler shop lot and admired the passing scenery. I parked myself on the hood to which a got a few cat calls from some passing hotties and not so hotties. The night was peaceful as the chant of rumbling exhaust seems to set a tranquil harmony in the midst of the concrete jungle.

My entrancement was broken by the mass sound of high pitched whines screaming down thoroughfare. I watched as a stream of bikes snaked their way through the modes of transportation. I witnessed the bikes herding around the flashier rides and follow like dogs chasing the mailman. As my eyes perceived the rabid little ankle biter nibbling on a tire mark on the riders backs, both my mind and the hairs on the back of my neck told something bad was brewing.

At that moment I watched a one of the gangers drew an S.M.G and began to rain bullets down on car in front of him. The sleek, champagne colored, Chrysler Menace, was hit in the hoop end except for the fact that instead of seeing bullet holes and shattered gas, there was nothing but a large amount of pink paint splats covering it. The driver of the Menace obviously panicked as he jumped the curbed and proceeded to introduce the front end of his ride to the trid-phone pole. After a tick or two of gawking, I determined the best course of action was the take my happy hoop somewhere other than here. I made a break for the inside of the truck, opened the ports on the nitrous tanks for good measure, jacked myself into the car, and shot for the side road leading behind the lot.

The side street made an immediate "T", so I hung a sharp left. Rounding the corner, I panned out my six o'clock view to see three independent headlights turning onto the service road behind me. Drek! Thought I ducked out in time; this is going to be a long night. I nailed the accelerator as the S curve up ahead came into full view. A Right-Left-Right configuration. I swung out left and lined up my angle into the turn. I pushed myself through the first turn and backed off the throttle, using momentum to glide into the second. I came out of the second curve wide right, went back on the gas to push me over to the left side. The rear tire lost traction for a brief moment, so I pressed the gas little more putting myself into a drifting slide, setting myself a little left of the center of the straight away which also ended in a "T". My pursuers, as far as I could tell, where all on Auroras or derivatives there of, due to the fact, they leaned through the curves resembling poetry in motion. I disengaged the anti-lock function on the brakes, locked up the wheels, threw the wheel into an immediate hard right, then an immediate double intense left, causing a skid, as the bed flung itself out left. Again, I laid the hammer down on the pedal and hauled hoop down 46th street, the main route of this small industrial area. My impending assailants were doing there best Jonathan Winger impressions behind me. Two of them nearly laid down in their lean around the corner, though they slowed down in doing so, the other ramped off the side drive and launched himself over the small parking lot; he stuck the landing onto the street and was now ahead of his compatriots. Any other time I'd have dropped my jaw seeing such a maneuver, but realizing my hoop-hole was slotted in at a pucker factor of ten, I didn't feel so inclined.

I needed to get out of this enclosed area and onto a more open terrain. The Post Office was coming up, thus meaning I wasn't too far from the expressway. Coasting down, I put myself into another controlled skid, this time the opposite direction. I bumped the tires into the outside lane curb as I came out of the corner. Luckily I didn't bust the sidewalls. The new lead bike was right on my tail but was forced to back down to take the turn. Before I could react, I heard the thump as I ran up on the railroad tracks. I misjudged the incline which instigated a premature departure from the ground. I know my meat probably went into a momentary weightless status, however, the abrupt landing resolved that. I felt the frame pancake on the pavement as a cascade of sparks shot out behind me. The gangers punched through the bombardment without skipping a beat. The impact slowed me down enough to shove over to starboard enough to go into the right hand turn onto the one-way street complimentary to the expressway.

I went wide open throttle, nudged the steering to the left, continuing on the on-ramp, as I blazed a trial east on the arterial highway. All three goons followed suit. Now I know my billy-bad-hoop truck is greased lightning, but it can't defy the laws of physics. I know those crotch rockets were easily going to over take me and in next to no time will be on me like stink on drek.

I looked at the speedometer to see that I was pushing 190 plus. The thugs were less than a meter from my rear bumper. I switched on the pressure regulator of my nitrous ports and kicked in the Nos. Not only was I trying to get a boost, I figured the after affects might make them fall back or shake them off. The roar from the engine rivaled that of Lofwyr's or the late Dunkelzahn's. The dual tailpipes spewed forth twin silvery blue, cylindrical flames uninterrupted and reaching nearly one to two meters in length. Two of the stalkers got contact burns by the flames as they veered to either side and continued riding at my flanks. The third caught the full blow of the flare, lit up like a candle, then the bike fish tailed and exploded into a rolling frag grenade.

The nitrous flowed like wine into the screaming engine. I was now pushing 260 plus. The tachometer was furiously rising to red line. Engine over speed, transmission over heat, engine over load, all the warnings, bells, and whistles were going off in my head. I zoomed in on the remaining chasers and barely made out through the heavy turbulence and snow, the one at my 7 o'clock was drawing a gun. I figured it wasn't loaded with paintballs. His wingman at my 4, whipped out something long and sectional letting it flap in the wind. The two bikes quickly moved along my sides up to my 11 and 1 o'clock. The one on the left unleashed a hail of bullets into the front end of me and the one on the right heaved the segmented black line out in front of me. OH DREK! A FRAGGING SPIKE STRIP! I had no time to react as I felt the concussion of the punctures as the strip raked through all four tires. I began to swerve all over the four lanes of shimmering blacktop. I feverously pumped the brakes and counter steered as I began to feel my left side push its way to centerline. The rubber compound melted and ripped away from the rims due to the sideward momentum as my weight started to shift forward. I was not going to roll, I'd be dead otherwise. In a last ditch attempt, I went pedal to the metal, threw the wheel all the way left which pushed the weight back over to the right as I ran up the incline of the underside of the over pass. Then it was darkness, up close.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

It was like I was lying on a fragging dry ice block, it was so fragging cold. I wish someone would shut whatever is making that "_bleep-bleep_" sound the frag up, it's beginning to slot me smooth off. Wait a sec, beeping sounds, ice cold air, aww drek on a stick; I'm in the fragging meat shop. I didn't want to open my eyes but did the classic 'open them slowly and maybe it's all a dream', much to my dismay, I was right in my assessment. I didn't have to guess how I ended up here; I was more concern on how big of a leech was sucking on my cred stick.

My eyes scanned the room and locked on to the white coat at the side of my bed. She was in her late twenties I figured, black hair with auburn highlights wrapped intricately into a bun that was set in place by a pair of hair needles, thin wire frame glasses, nice bod, and one happy looking doc coat cradling a wonderful set of warheads. She appeared to be looking over the monitors then noticed I was coming to. "Ah, good... How are you feeling Mr. Hardgrove?" she asked in the typically used, standard bedside manner fashion. "Like I got hit by a truck…"

She giggled like a giddy school girl which was a bit unexpected at first, though any other time I might have been a bit turned on by it. "I had heard you were in that truck and tried to take on a bridge. I'm Dr. Naya Silverberg; I will be your presiding physician. Well, Mr. Hardgrove, I guess it is my duty to regretfully inform you that you lost." The doc shot a warm hearted smile, to which I chuckled to myself causing my ribs and chest to ache as if they were used as a troll punching bag.

"So, how long have I been out of it?"

"Two days, twenty hours, and thirty eight minutes. You suffered a serious concussion, along with some moderate bruising to your torso. This is the first time you have fully responded."

She proceeded to carry out the doctor's protocol; the pupil dilation, nerve responses, you know the drill. As the friendly female doctor began to check me from head to toe, she felt a bit inquisitive. "What is your occupation, Mr. Hardgrove?"

"Gear-head mostly, although I do some mechanic work on the side. By the way, I'm not much on formalities, so if it's whiz with you, just call me Nate and drop the corps fancy double talk."

"I am sorry, err… Ok, I'm not much for the bull drek, either. Just standard procedure." She bashfully tittered giving me a look of thanks as she continued her examination. I had to admit this doc lady was ever-so gentle in her pokes and prods. This, compounded by the fact her hands were unknowingly hitting all the rights spots, definitely were not helping matters.

"Anyways, Nate, is there any money in being a gear head?"

"Not really, but being a shareholder in a Seattle based warehouse and shipping company doesn't hurt." I beamed slyly.

She perked an intrigued eyebrow and a wolfish smirk at that, "Really? Sounds like you're a jack of all trades." I shrugged playfully as I watched her check the impulses and reflexes of my legs only to stop and look at me with a neutral expression as her mouth tried saying something but nothing came forth. She looked down to the floor as it appeared she trying to regain some composure. "What is it, Naya?" She aggressively cleared her throat while stammering her words. "I… I… I seemed to have… I mean, it appears you have no nerve damage, but…"

"But… But what?"

"It… It looks as if I happened to trigger a secondary response." She began to turn three shades of red in saying that. I quickly tried to figure out what she meant by that, because I didn't feel anything out of the ordinary was going on. The good doctor now stood at the foot of my bed straining to keep herself together. Then I realized that I was pitching a tent bigger than drek. "Hmmm, well, at least we know that _everything's_ still working right." She quickly stifled a loud outburst of laughter with her hand, slinking to her knees, trying her best to contain herself. I sat up and slid my way to the edge of the bed look intently at my medic who looked up waving a naughty boy finger at me. She slowly rose to her feet wiping her now watering eyes. "Thanks, Nate, I needed a good laugh. When you deal with pain, misery, and sorrow as often as I do, you hardly find the time to find humor in some situations."

After the charming, and not to mention incredibly fine looking, doctor slipped me her number and I handed over mine, she said I was good to go. The doc did tell me that the Knight Errant Highway Patrol were the ones who brought me in and were probably holding my ride. I did not waste any time, though. I grabbed my drek and checked myself out of the meat locker, pronto. The whole R&R cost me a mere twenty-six-hundred, but, hey, it could have been a lot worse, even though my cred stick took a decent hit. I checked over my pocket secretary for any signs of tampering, but luckily it seemed to be untouched to the best of my knowledge. There was a new message waiting for me to wake up I guess. I opened it up. The date read about 24 hours ago and was voice only. Curious as I was, I figured I'd give it a listen. "Mr. Hardgrove, My name is Julian Renard. My L.T.G. number is 2557-918-6996. Please contact me at your leisure." The voice was even toned, businesslike but a bit assertive to the implying of the number. The guy sounded human. I didn't know a Julian Renard; nevertheless, he seemed to know me. Of course, any given person would have forgot the whole deal or got very paranoid. The only problem was my dumb-hoop wanted to know who this guy is and why he's interested in me. So, I fed the number to my machine and after the first ring the same businesslike voice answered with only voice, no trid. "Renard."

"Renard, this is Nate Hardgrove returning your message." greeting him with a similar tone. "Ah, yes. Thank you for your call. "The trid image popped up and before me was as I guessed, a human suit boy, clean cut, styled hair, obviously talking on his car phone. The funny thing about him I saw was he was jacked into, quite possibly the car, but it was obvious this guy was used to driving through his data jack. Not that I think doing such does much good aside from a rig.

"So, what can I do for you Mr. Renard?"

"I'm an attorney and I want to discuss matters in a vehicular altercation with my client. Be aware that this conversation is being monitored and will be on record as evidence towards acceptance or failure to cooperate in these proceedings. Perhaps we should meet to discuss that. As you can see I am out and about currently, so I leave it to you to decide when and where."

"Well, I'm kind of without a means of transportation at the moment, so I'll have to get back with you."

"If it would fine by you, I can pick you up if necessary. The sooner we arrange something the better it will look for your case." Obviously this guy is not who I though he was. Not to mention I just fragged myself hard due to my curiosity. "Fine, I'm in front of Crash Cart Regional Medical Center in downtown."

"I will be seeing you in approximately twenty minutes. I do hope to see you there when I arrive."

"I'll be here." I cut him off at that and checked the clock, 19:25. I disconnected him and plugged in Shakespeare's number. The phone got half a ring and once again I was greeted by a clearing throat, "Capulet Investments."

"Sorry man, all I got was static out of that." And with that, a couple of pops sounded in the receiver and I new he got the idea.

"How intense is the heat?"

"None, but I need to be sure of something right now."

"Very well. So how may I be of service to you this evening?"

"Data search. One general, one specific. I need the name of a high ranking attorney in either the city's D.A.'s office or equivalent. I also need anything on a Julian Renard, C.A.S. attorney, in Tulsa, anything of note you can find."

"And when would you like this information, I mean this is a bit beneath me, as it were."

"In the next 18 minutes if possible."

"I see, then perhaps I shall accept this undertaking. Standard rates if done in under 5, ¾ standard if under ten, 11 to 18 half price, 18 plus it's free. Agreed?"

"Done, clock starts when you click off."

"I bid thee a fond adieu, for now." He closed in his best Elizabethan accent and he hung up as I watched the clock, 17:27.

Luckily, my smokes and my Zippo survived the wreck because I definitely had a nicotine fit on the rise. I reached into my long coat for my cigs and to my surprise I found that my Predator III was still tucked in its holster in the coat. Seems the rent-a-cops must have either slipped or they were just looking for obvious and blatant items. Needless to say, I am feeling a bit more secure about this situation. I pondered whether this whole deal with Renard was legit or not. Seemed to be as much, but when did any ganger ever actually use the law, let alone hire a lawyer, or at least find one willing to take them seriously without the threat of bodily harm? Who knows, maybe there are smart gangers out there. I doubt that it's nothing more than an opportunity to weasel out some cred. I'm sure that all will be revealed in the next sixteen minutes. With that in mind, I lit a smoke to kill time.

I checked the clock as the phone rang in my hand. Four minutes, thirty nine seconds had transpired. I answered to the image of William Shakespeare himself. "I have your information as you requested, my fee will be deducted from your next deposit. Prepare to receive. Have thee a wonderful evening." With that, he was gone. I opened up the file Shakes had sent and began skimming through it. Ambrose Reynolds was the name of the attorney I could use as my representing lawyer so I now had a name to throw at Renard to lessen the weight he could try to press on me. As for Mr. Renard, he seemed fairly legitimate. He was board certified as a personal injury, criminal, and business law attorney, both corps and mega corps. Most of his cases were noteworthy in the private sector of business dealing with laundering, embezzlement, law suits regarding compensation of all types, etc. The boy is good at what he does, which makes things a little more difficult on my end. It still didn't explain how this high profile advocate would even kick around the notion of working for a ganger unless the ganger was a poser whose family had the cred to pay for him. Money and influence, the things I hate to have looming over me.

There was a footnote to the download I noticed. I clicked on it to find a secondary file on Renard. Apparently, Mr. Renard is some what of a legal philanthropist, doing pro-bono legal work for low income persons and families. A couple of notable works involved suspected gang members. I read into the details on that. Renard has worked to cases involving smuggling of contraband and first degree murder cases of alleged affiliates of the "Tire Biters" gang known to operate within the Tulsa city limits. He managed to get them off in both instances. Now, not only did find the connection, I had the name of the gang that fragged me up. Thank you, Shakespeare.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

A fully detailed, silver Westwind pulled up in front of me on the drive of the hospital. The deep tented passenger window rolled down to a crack as the driver's eyes stared at me from the inside. "Mr. Hardgrove?" a flat and cold voice called out from inside. I nodded. "I've contacted my lawyer and he wishes to be at this meeting. Perhaps you know him, Ambrose Reynolds? He wants to meet at the at his office." Renard's eyes slightly narrowed as the power locks thumped on the door passenger door. "Understood, Shall we?"

I opened the door and climbed into the plush leather and wood grain trimmed interior. I glanced over at Renard who was jacked into his car, was dressed in a designer suit, and smelled as if he just came out of a bath of expensive cologne. Renard slowly gave a fleeting look over his shoulder. "I like you to meet my assistant." I casually looked back to see eerie blonde hair and eyes. A shocked toned voice piped up, "You again!" I reached for the door handle wrenching it to let me out only to find it locked. Next thing I know, a blunt force hit me in the back of the head and my vision slipped into darkness as a soft voice entered my ears. "Nighty-night, sweetie…"

My sinuses were filled with the smell of stale air and dust while the left side of my neck warmly throbbed. I heard the crinkle of plastic against cloth as I moved my head groggily in a circle. Well, somebody was kind enough to slap a stim patch on me. That only means they are ready to talk or want me to see the bullet coming. I took in a deep breath and opened my eyes to behold a blonde gothic chick leaning back in a crossed legged sitting position, on the edge of a table in front of me, filing her nails as if she was bored. A single, randomly flickering, white, florescent light was shining down on us. It seemed to be the only piercing light in what was a much larger room for sure, but the contents of which were enveloped in shadows. I slowly looked to my left and right to see the luchador troll on one side of me and the scared up, razor boy ork on the other. My hands and feet were tied to a metal folding chair which wasn't a big surprise, more cliché at best. The girl extended her hand, looking over her nails, and then focused her attention on me.

"So is this where you beat the drek out of me or scare me to the point of slotting my pants?"

She gave me an amused smile. "That all depends on whether you meant to turn one of ours into a crispy critter or not."

"Hey, he and his pals knew the risks when they decided to frag with me. Drek happens." I smiled somewhat arrogantly.

The masked trog obviously didn't care much for my answer as he told me by slamming his fist into my stomach. I managed to keep what little contents had in my belly from escaping. I struggled to catch my breath because his clinched fist hit me like a cinder block. The little lass hopped off her perch, and straddled me. With a nearly ice cold hand, she raised my chin and locked eyes with me. She gave me a cheerful sneer as her cavity forming, sugary sweet voice chimed in while she planted finger tips along my cranium, "Listen to me. If you don't answer me truthfully and openly, I'm going to fry your noodle into soy-meal. Got it? Blink twice if you understand me."

Once again my brain started to get that tingling sensation to which I obliged her with a pair of blinks. Could she do exactly what she says? I don't think I want to find out and be wrong. Again, I watched her eyes dilate like she was peering into my soul. My whole body felt clammy and chills raced through every nerve in my meat. Deafening silence formed a bubble around us. I heard her voice inside my head in an echo like chant. I subconsciously seemed to answer her queries though I could not seem to find the willpower to block the impulses as I struggled to repress other thoughts as much as possible. I felt her fingers move around on my head slightly. My head started to form small little aches in different locations. It felt as if a storm was raging in my skull.

Just as soon as it had begun, it was over. Her hands were covering my eyes as she cascaded her fingers down my face at a snail's pace. Resting her hands on my chest, I could see she was almost completely drained with her drooping head and her body almost limp in my lap. She tossed the hair out of her face, looked up at the ceiling, shook her whole body, and drew her attention back to me. She let out a deep breath, "Almost as good as sex isn't it?" exhaling slowly with an extremely weary look on her face. She placed her arms around my neck, planted a short and sweet kiss on my lips, and dismounted me. She stumbled back to the table a leaned heavily on the edge, trying to retain some composure.

"Well I hope you got what you needed. Would one of you gentleman men cut me loose already?" I heard the sound of steel clearing skin as the sharp point of the ork's hand blade was pressed up under my jaw. "Shut the frag up, breeder! You even think about poppin' your pie hole off again I'm gonna cut your tongue out and hang it on my wall!" I shrugged to which I felt his point dig in a bit more. "Rager, back off." A resonating, deep, and stern voice sounded from the shadows. I examined the room for the source when the power oozing, African-Anglo, mass of muscle stepped out from the all concealing shade. The ork grunted and I felt the flare of dislike and rage from his nostrils hit me directly upside the head.

The guy now in charge signaled to the troll to which I felt my bonds being undone. With my hands and feet now free, I leaned forward onto my knees gazed up at the man feeling like I was his slitch. Even more so than the first time I saw this dude, he reeked of authority, not out of intimidation, more out of aura he reflected. "Word has it your some wheelman." He started his obvious interrogation out in a calm and collect demeanor. "You care to comment on that?"

"People talk. Most of the time it's over exaggerated."

"True. But what I want to know is what sort of business brings you here from Seattle."

"My biz is my own." At that I heard a shuffle step come up from behind me but the big man raised a finger and I heard the ork stop short.

"Let me put it another way. Your biz here has nothing to do with our organization, yes or no?"

"Look I don't know diddly-drek about you all, except your go-gang of some sort, you are known as the Tire Biters, and you slotted at me. Aside from that, you and your Tire biters can go frag yourselves for all I care."

He looked over at the juice slinger to which she nodded while stifling a long drawn yawn. He turned back towards me with cocked head and raised a questioning eyebrow. "Understand. I know what has happened and you are correct. They knew the chance they were taking. I really don't care how big you think your balls are right now; just remember you're in no position to frag around. I know that you're skilled driver. From what my boys told me of the way you handled yourself, I'd be willing to bet that you've do some jobs. You're probably one of the best for this area. Now that being said, my name is Blake and I happen to be in charge of this posse known as the Tire Biters."

It would appear that Blake has got connections, given that he's a gang leader, it makes sense. The way he just put all that in perspective makes me think he's obviously is or once was in the biz. I figured something must be up and Blake wanted to put things on a neutral playing field. I could respect that and given the fact, like he said, I was in no position to frag with him. I was sure this was about to get interesting.

"So, Blake, how did come to this conclusion?"

He pulled out my Predator III from where he had tucked it in his back waistband. He unchambered the loaded round, caught it in the air, and held it tip up between his fingers. "This is what gave you away. Gel Rounds. Not exactly what you would normally see in this type of pistol." continuing on in his still present whiz, dominating tone.

"So I don't want to get busted hard for packing offensive rounds, nothing big about that, just smart."

"Perhaps, so I checked your S.I.N. It was legit for Seattle. So, I made a few calls on Gel packing runners, only to find out about Zero Count."

"Zero Count? What the heck is that?"

"They happen to be a team that specifically operates on a zero body count operation. A team you happen to be apart of at one time perhaps."

"Whatever man, think what you want..."

I figured it better for me to quit slotting around, that and I just wanted to get the frag out of here. "Alright, Blake, let cut the drek. What do you want with me anyways?"

"Ok, I need a rigger. It just so happens that I lucked into a situation to happened to find one of your caliber for a job that requires someone of your expertise. Our merchandise is getting stolen by a group of riggers. Pro for sure. Superior vehicles, precision tactics, you know what I speak of?"

"Jackers who are hitting smugglers; I follow so far. Sounds as if you're getting some rival competition. What kind of numbers are we talking about?"

"2 to 6, never the same way twice."

"So, what do you want from me?"

"Simple, you find out whose hitting my shipments and we leave you be."

"So, I put my hoop out there and all I get is a thanks and your word of leaving me alone. Extorting me for a job. What kind of bull-drek deal is this?"

"The old ways are sometimes the best ways. This is option number one. Option number two falls to letting Rager and El Gigante, plus the rest of the gang enact an "eye for an eye". It's your choice."

"Oh gee, let me think. Seeing how your omaes fubar'd my ride, I think that it may prove to be a little difficult to do this little snoop, seek, and destroy job."

"We will provide you with a new vehicle. You do the job to make up for the loss of one of our own. Deal?"

"Seeing how you got me by the cajones, I guess I got no other choice."

Blake popped the bullet into his pocket handed me my credstick and piece.

"I'll have more detailed info sent to you when we deliver your vehicle." With that, Blake, Rager, the mojo lobber, and El Gigante left the room. I waited respectfully for about a couple of minutes, then made my way out the door. One of the gang's peons was standing outside the door and guided me through the labyrinth of clutter; the hulks of run down rooms that were covered in graffiti, drug paraphernalia of every type, long emptied synthohol bottles, and disposed human/meta-human population control devices. We winded down the stairway and dumped off into the Last Resort parking lot. Several of the hooligans were mingling about and kept an eye on me as I made my way across the street and down the side walk.

I took a little stroll down a couple of blocks making a few evasive maneuvers to check for tails. The meddlers decided to follow me till I saw a Lone Star squad car sitting in front of a stuffer shack. I made my way inside as my shadows decide to mosey on back. I grabbed a cup of soy-café and called up a cab. The Shack provided a brief sanctuary for twenty minutes as I kept vigilance for my ticket out of here. The ameri-cab arrived to which I wasted no time getting in, telling the grungy looking and smelling ork driver my destination, and rolled out. It's not that I was afraid, but I was more than sure that word had not been passed down through the ranks yet to not break every bone in my meat and depositing me at some body bank.


End file.
